


Gimme Gimme

by primalvanguard



Series: With You Everywhere [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Amica Endurae, Awkwardness, Developing Relationship, M/M, duplicate lost light, post LL25
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-13 14:02:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20583683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primalvanguard/pseuds/primalvanguard
Summary: One lonely night at Swerve's, Rodimus finds himself an unlikely companion.





	Gimme Gimme

_ He’s happy for Drift_, Rodimus reminded himself for the umpteenth time. He sighed into his glass of midgrade, slumping even lower onto the bar top. 

Really, he is. After what felt like centuries of pining, after centuries of watching him and Ratchet dance around each other, the two of them moving on to proper courtship and eventually becoming conjunx endura was a big step in the right direction for everyone involved. He didn’t even tease them all that much when he could see them holding hands under the table during meetings, or when they were tangled together in front of him in their shared booth during their excursions to _ Swerve’s_. But even those had become scarce.

It felt as though with each passing day, as the ship’s crew fell more and more into their new way of life, the less Rodimus saw of his best friend and amica endura.

Drift had taken Ratchet on a date off planet. And going by the look on Drift’s face paired with the pleading undertones his voice took when he told Rodimus earlier in the day, it was a real date. Not one of their many bar excursions, not one of Swerve’s movie nights where Rodimus would spend the duration of the film skulking behind them, making kissy noises until Ratchet threw energon goodies at him. _ No_— this was a _ real _ date, their first proper date since the _ Lost Light _had been won back, one where even best friends and acting third wheels weren’t all too welcomed.

So that night, while his best friend and his conjunx spent the evening together galavanting on a nearby planet, Rodimus took up residence at the bar. 

The guilt of knowing he was being selfish yet again did nothing to ease his loneliness. He’d spent so much of his functioning at his best friend’s side that even when he and Ratchet formalized their relationship, he had trouble coming to accept that Drift was making more room in his spark for someone else. It was frustrating, at times, to feel like he was constantly vying for his amica’s attention, but he knew deep down that Drift deserved quality time alone with his conjunx. A need which far outweighed his for a sense of belonging rooted in the insecurity he’d been working so hard to tame.

The insecurity still gnawing incessantly at his insides.

His chin was resting on his palm, his other servo occupied with swirling the straw in his third (fourth?) glass of weak midgrade. With a plaintive sigh, he brought the edge of the glass to his lips, the straw bumping against his cheek as he ignored it in favour of downing the rest of his beverage in one gulp. The glass fell back down onto the tabletop with a dull thud. If his spoiler drooped any lower, it would have fallen clean off his frame.

Try as he might, engex never seemed to wash away the ache in his spark as well as he’d like it to.

The bar scene laid out behind him had melted into the background. There were more than a few mechanisms present that night, more than a few of whom Rodimus knew, but each had their own table, their own place among friends. It was natural, almost predetermined order which excluded the captain who was attached at the hip with his nominal third in command, whose own conjunx never strayed too far behind. 

On the other hand, he supposed it was hard to attract a companion when wave after wave of self-pity was overflowing from his field. Even Swerve— _ Swerve!_— had given up trying to talk his audial off, instead engaging with the other mechs at the bar who were even slightly more receptive to his constant chatter.

Rodimus turned in his seat to request another refill on his midgrade, but before he could get the words out, a bright blue cocktail was set on the bar in front of him, topped with a trademark paper umbrella.

He arched a brow, confused optics travelling from the glowing cocktail to the barkeep stationed behind the counter. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but… I didn’t order this?”

“I know you didn’t,” Swerve paused his work cleaning a glass to throw a thumb over his shoulder. His visor gleamed with barely contained excitement. “_He _did.”

Rodimus hadn’t noticed when Thunderclash slid onto the empty stool beside his. The sight was almost comical— the seat disappeared completely under his vast frame, and while Rodimus’ pedes were just out of reach of the floor below, Thunderclash had to tuck his up on bars of the stool to sit comfortably. An uncharacteristically shy smile played his features, servo wrapped around a glass of high grade.

“I’m sorry if I was a bit presumptuous, but you looked like you could use some company.”

Rodimus threw a glance over his shoulder, searching for an opening at a table, _ something _ he could use as a way out. He had had a long time to sort through his personal motivations since the mutiny’s resolution, but _ not _ feeling horribly inadequate around the other mech was still something he’d had yet to grow accustomed to.

Though, like he’d observed earlier that night, there was still no group he’d be able to easily insert himself into. 

“You don’t have to be _ sorry, _Thunders,” he turned back dubiously, pointing to the garish cocktail sitting waiting for him on the bar. “This for me?”

“I noticed you finished your drink not too long ago,” Thunderclash said, a tinge of colour coming to his cheeks. “If you don’t like it, I’d be happy to order you another, I know you’re partial to—"

“Oh, uh, thanks, but don’t worry about it. I’ll drink just about anything you put in front of me.” 

The silence they fell into wasn’t as comfortable as either would have liked. While they’d improved in both their professional relationship and occasional after-hours interactions, the fact Rodimus had gone so long with unwarranted resentment towards the other mech which still backdropped most of their time together was breathing down both of their necks.

Rodimus stole a glance over at Thunderclash. He had leaned over to rest his elbows on the tabletop, his massive shoulders curling in on themselves as he swirled his straw around his glass of high grade. 

“Thunders—”

“Rodimus—”

Their optics met fleetingly before Rodimus drew back.

“Sorry, sorry, you go first.” He brought the straw to his lips, feeling his own cheeks warm.

“I just noticed you weren’t accompanied by Drift tonight. It struck me as… Odd.”

“Yeah, he’s out with Ratchet,” Rodimus said, the yellow metal of his spoiler flapping in delight despite his sour mood. The odd drink had a pleasant tang to it, and the chill it sent down his backstruts as it rushed down his intake was more than satisfying. “Conjunx stuff, y’know.”

“I see,” Thunderclash mused. “I can see why you look so—”

He paused, considering his next words carefully before continuing.

“— glum.”

Rodimus snorted. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“It’s easy to understand why,” Thunderclash said. “You two are very close, and I can imagine how your relationship might have changed when Drift and Ratchet completed their rites.”

Rodimus grimaced. “As if the rites did anything,” His optics were lowered, avoiding his gaze. “They were practically magnetized to each other with or without them. Except now Drift wants more alone time.”

“It isn’t uncommon for mechs to want alone time with their conjunx after completing their ceremony, to fully absorb their new reality and explore what they mean together,” Thunderclash nodded sagely.

“But we’re different,” Rodimus cut in, pent-up hurt bleeding into his tone. “We’re… We’re _ amica_. He’s my best friend.”

“Has any of that changed since he married Ratchet?”

“Well, uh, no,” There was a pause, a sip, something garbled unintelligibly. Thunderclash peered at him. 

“I didn’t expect you to really, uh, _ get it_?” Rodimus cleared his intake and set the glass back down. “You have so many friends. It’s not like you have to worry about any of _ them _replacing you any time soon.”

Thunderclash smiled wanly. “If I were being honest, there’s only a handful I’d consider true friends.”

“What?”

“While I can’t deny I am subject to... A lot of attention, there’s only a few mechs who I can say with confidence would be at my side in times of duress, and who have actually been there,” Thunderclash said. “Velocity, and ironically Ratchet, for example.”

Rodimus blinked, bewildered. “But you’re—”

“Me?” Thunderclash supplied. “I’m no different than anyone else aboard this ship, Rodimus. I fought in a war and survived. Anyone could have taken my place, and it wouldn’t have been of consequence.”

Rodimus’ expression didn’t change.

“I can only guess how you must be feeling, Rodimus, but as close as the two of you are, there will be times where Drift needs time to himself, as I’m sure there are times where _ you _need it as well,” Thunderclash took a sip from his own glass, soft red optics locked on his. 

“That isn’t to say your place in Drift’s spark is in any jeopardy. There isn’t any reason to believe you’re no longer as important to him, or that he intends to replace you. He loves Ratchet, there’s no denying it, but he loves you too.”

The few beats of silence that followed was near agonizing. Thunderclash opened his mouth, about to apologize for overstepping when Rodimus ran a hand down his faceplates, groaning loudly. 

“... You’re talking _ sense_, and I hate it.”

Thunderclash couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You have nothing to fear, Rodimus. Drift is in good hands.”

“I’m not too sure about that. He’s out there with the _ party ambulance, _ you know _ . _”

“Ah, I take it you’ve heard the stories?”

Rodimus waved a servo, draining his glass before setting it back down on the counter. He looked up at him contemplatively. “Whatever’s managed to get around. You?”

“Ratchet and I knew each other in our academy days,” Thunderclash said. “We were roommates, in fact. I was present for a decent amount.”

“Wait, wait, _ back it up, _” He leaned in, optics widening in disbelief. “You knew each other back then?”

Thunderclash blinked. “Er, yes, we both studied at the Iaconian ac—”

Rodimus twisted in his seat, facing him with renewed enthusiasm. “Tell me _ everything.” _

* * *

Rodimus was never going to be able to look Ratchet in the eye again.

The Ratchet Thunderclash was so vividly describing couldn’t have been the mech Drift married— crotchety but hardworking, reliable, warm, loving. Too stern to go to the bar without engaging his FIM chip halfway through the evening, ignoring the lighthearted jeers thrown his way from the pair of speedsters who accompanied him.

He listened to Thunderclash recount countless bar fights. Drinking contests gone wrong. Times where Thunderclash himself had to carry Ratchet back to their shared quarters. Stunts ending with the sturdy medic he’d come to know in someone else’s medbay. It’d taken little to no persuasion on Rodimus’ part to get Thunderclash to spill every story in his memory banks. The other mech seemed more than happy to keep a conversation going when Rodimus, for once, seemed enthused by what he had to say. 

Neither of them noticed when the number of patrons occupying the bar began to trickle off. Tables behind them began to pack up as the night progressed, overcharged mechs helping each other along to their respective habsuites. Long-forgotten glasses were hurriedly being swept onto a tray by Swerve as he scrambled to get everything together for the night.

The space between them had been gradually closing bit by bit, and by this hour Rodimus couldn’t tell if the warmth he felt was coming from the overcharge he’d been accumulating after another few rounds of drinks Thunderclash had quietly requested be put on his tab, or because the side of his large frame was brushing against his own. The size of Thunderclash’s engine generated a warmth not unlike his own, but his taller stature enveloped him in it almost completely, adding to the engex-induced haze clouding his senses.

By now, he was toeing the line between overcharged and _ way too overcharged_, but the fog in his processor was weighing down on his already meager ability to concentrate. As the story Thunderclash had been regaling him with came to a close, he leaned into the comforting heat, optics half-shuttered.

“I’m sorry to kick you out, but I’m about to close up for the night,” Swerve’s apologetic voice rang in his audials. He was standing on a stool in front of them behind the bar, wiping down the counter.

“Not to worry, Swerve,” Thunderclash smiled goodnaturedly, making sure to transfer a sizable tip in shanix into his makeship tip jar along with payment for the night’s drinks. “Thank you for all your hard work.”

The named bartender only ducked behind the bar with a squeak when he received the notification for the bill.

Rodimus’ helm spun as he wordlessly slid off his seat, what little focus he had left centered on keeping his pedes planted. His smaller frame type meant whatever amount of liquor Thunderclash had consumed hit him almost twice as hard. A large servo found his shoulder, catching him mid-sway.

“I’m sorry, sometimes I forget not everyone is suited to handle as much drinking as I am,” Thunderclash’s voice was surprisingly regretful as he helped him to the door.

“Naaah, s’okay, I feel great,” Rodimus slurred and flashed him a shaky grin. Thunderclash remained unconvinced. 

“Would you like me to escort you back to your habsuite?”

Rodimus’ expression morphed into something indecipherable. He leaned against the doorframe, peering out into the hall both ways. “Oh, uh… That’s okay Thunders, you already put up with me, like, all night.”

Thunderclash faltered. “All right, then. I’ll see you later?”

Rodimus hummed half-heartedly, barely glancing over his shoulder as he stepped out into the hall with an unmistakable stutter in his step. Thunderclash idled, letting his optics follow him down the hall until he disappeared from view before taking his leave with a heavy sigh.

Watching the scene unfold from behind the counter, Swerve was still pondering a question he couldn’t seem to find an answer to after a night of contemplation.

“How did _ Rodimus _ of all mechs win the spark of that great big colour-clashing dreamboat?”

**Author's Note:**

> i... may or may not be still mad abt the lack of in canon rodimus/thunderclash development
> 
> im on tumblr as primalvanguard :~)


End file.
